When Michelle, at
length,
emerges, the pit is dark. Has he left already? Anxiously, Michelle surveys
the sceneŚleaning against the bar, braced against disappointment... then
spots him in the dimness, putting up chairs. Hope revived, she settles onto a barstool.

"Buy you a drink,
Michelle?"

It is Steve.

"No, thank you."

"Morgan's got
the jitters worse than you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Skip it... Why not have that
drink? He'll be a while. Looks like you could use one."

"Why; do I look
bad?"

Steve smiles, scans her
up and down.

"If you were
stepping out with me, I'd have a heart attack. Meaning you
look terrific. Fresh as an unpicked daisy; Morgan will approve."

"Sounds like you know Morgan pretty
good."

Steve sips his beer.

"We've talked."

"About
me?"

"Come on, have a
nightcap. Liquor loosens the lips and warms the tongue."Michelle
keeps glancing at Morgan as he brushes down the
blackjack table."Don't worry,
he's not likely to leave this dump without you."

"How would you
know?"

Steve lifts his hands,
apologetically, retracting any offense.

"A guess, is all."

He takes another sip of
his last-call beer. A trace
of foam adheres to his upper lip. Michelle, although on guard, succumbs to curiosity.